Calamityville
by Gameboy Rocker
Summary: Sequel to "Holmes is Where the Heart Is". After only knowing each other for a few weeks, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson-new flatmates with a budding friendship-are called away to America to investigate a series of mysterious disappearances taking place near a small, rural community. Why are people disappearing, and what does sweet, soft-spoken Jim Moriarty know? Chapter 6 is up!
1. Chapter 1

The rain was pouring down so hard that the young female driver couldn't make out the road in front of her. She was regretting taking the back roads on her way home—there was less traffic this way, yes, but the lights of the other cars would have been a comforting sight this time. She glanced down at her speedometer and saw that it read thirty miles per hour—faster than she thought she was going. She pressed her foot on the brake pedal until she slowed to twenty.

The back roads were hard enough to navigate on a clear day. Now she was taking them in the dark, in the rain. There were sharp turns, narrow lanes, and wild animals could cross anywhere, anytime.

Her cell phone began ringing from her purse, which was sitting in the empty passenger seat beside her. The cheery pop-song ringtone made her smile, despite the gloomy conditions in which she was driving. She pressed the brake again, slowing down to a mere fifteen miles per hour. She kept her eyes on the road in front of her as she slowly reached over and fished her phone out of the bag. One glance at the screen made her smile widen. It was Eric, her fiancé.

She flipped the phone open and held it close to her ear. "Eric! Hi, love, are you at home?"

"_Yeah, I just got in a few minutes ago. Where are you?"_

"On my way. I'm caught in the storm. I decided to take the back roads…now I'm regretting that."

"_The back roads? They might be flooded by now."_

"Shit," she cursed loudly. "I didn't even think of that. I haven't seen any flooding yet—look, I'm almost back on the highway; I should be—"

Her sentence was cut short when she saw an outlined form directly in front of her car. Her foot instinctively slammed on the brake and a loud, screeching protest was heard from the road underneath her tires, even though it was so slick that she kept sliding. She dropped her phone, not even caring as it tumbled to the floor, and clutched the steering wheel with both hands to keep her car from sliding off the road. After a few seconds, her car came to a stop.

"_Em? Em, what's going on? Are you okay?"_

Emily's fingers were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. Her chest moved up and down as she took frantic breaths, feeling her heart racing in her throat. She turned off the car's ignition and unbuckled her seat belt, leaning over to pick up her phone as she said, "Eric, yeah, I'm okay—I would've sworn that I saw something…"

She held the phone back up to her ear. "Really, I thought something ran out in front of my car…maybe I just imagined it." She began looking out of the passenger window, then the front windshield, then turned her head to her own driver's side window. "There doesn't seem to be—Jesus!"

A face was staring back at her. It was the face of a child—about ten years old, very skinny, pale, with sunken eyes and thin, straight lips that were pulled back into a huge Cheshire-cat-like grin. His hair was thin and dark, cut short. He lifted up one of his hands and waved at her, his hand twisting back and forth rapidly.

"_Hello? Emily! What is it? Hello?"_

"Hold…hold on," Emily said softly into the phone. She reached down and rolled her window down a few inches. "Are you okay, kid? Why did you run out in front of me?"

The child's voice was filled with excitement and eagerness when he spoke. "Hey, lady! Ya' wanna see a dead body?"

Emily clutched her phone tighter. Her eyebrows furrowed at the boy's question. Her eyes darted past him, looking for anyone else that might be nearby, but she saw nothing and heard nothing.

"What—what did you say?"

"A dead body!" the boy repeated. "I'done found one. Ya' wanna see it?"

Emily paused before answering. "Um…sure. Just let me grab my coat." Emily rolled her window up and slipped her keys into her pocket. "Something's wrong, Eric," she said into her phone, softly so that the boy couldn't hear her. "This kid…he appeared out of nowhere, and he's asking me if I want to see a dead body."

"_A dead body? What the hell does he mean?" _

"I don't know. I have to go with him—what if someone got into an accident on the road, just like I almost did? They might be hurt. I can't just leave them out here."

"_Come home," _Eric said in a firm tone. _"I'll call the police and they can check it out. Stay in your car, Emily." _

"No, Eric, I'll be fine. Look, he's just a kid. I'll stay on the phone with you though, okay?"

"_I really don't think—"_

"By the time the police get here, it may be too late! And what if this kid is just pulling my leg? Then they'd have come all the way out here for nothing. I'll be fine."

Emily slipped her jacket on and then opened her car door, stepping out onto the wet road. With the headlights now off, it was almost impossible to see anything, but then the child clicked on a flashlight.

"Where is this so-called 'dead body'?" she asked him. "Are you sure they're dead? Were they in a car accident?"

"Folla' me, lady. It's down the road here."

Emily followed the boy a couple of yards. He turned left, motioning for her to follow him into the wet brush. It seemed less and less likely to her that it was someone who had been in some kind of car accident. Maybe the kid _was_ just pulling her leg. They walked a few more meters, until the shrubbery behind them was blocking the view of the road, and then the boy stopped. He pointed his flashlight beam at the ground. "Here they are!"

Emily gasped when she looked down. A corpse was lying on the wet grass, the remaining skin on it as white as snow. Bones were showing where the skin had been eaten away; others had flaps of wet flesh still hanging off them. It still had on a pair of blue jeans, although the fabric was torn in multiple places and covered in mud. The head of the corpse was nothing more than a skull. Some of the bones were missing—both hands, two ribs, the entire bottom row of teeth.

Emily's hands began trembling as she took a slow step backwards. "Where did you find this?" she asked softly. Her voice cracked as she forced the words out.

"Whadya' mean, where'd I find it? He's mine! My pappy gave him to me. And now, I'm gonna give you to him."

"_Whadya' mean, where'd I find it? He's mine! My pappy gave him to me. And now, I'm gonna give you to him." _

Eric Black's heart stopped as he heard the drawled words over the phone. He opened his mouth to tell his fiancée to get the hell back to her car, but he was cut short when he heard her horrified, desperate scream.

"Emily?! EMILY!"


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of the violin used to be a comfort to John. When he heard Sherlock playing it at one, two, three, even four o'clock in the morning, it served as a reminder to him that he was no longer sleeping in a cardboard box on the street. But that was then, and this is now.

After two weeks of being woken up, consistently, every night, he had had enough. John got out of bed and wrapped his nightgown around his body. He walked to his bedroom door and flung it open, then headed down the stairs—nearly tripping over Phree in the process—and into the living room.

"What," he said, using every ounce of discipline in him to stay calm, "are you doing playing that thing at three in the morning?"

Sherlock was staring out the window, his bony cheek resting against his violin. His slim body was enveloped in his navy robe, although John could see that he was wearing jeans underneath it. Sherlock muttered something that that actually came out as more of a grunt.

"What?" John hissed impatiently.

Sherlock flung around and dropped his violin and bow into his chair. "BORED!"

His bellowing made John jump. "Jesus," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, when people are bored, they don't play violin at three in the morning. At least, decent people, who care about their roommates getting enough sleep, don't. Can't you do something quiet?"

Sherlock sank down into John's chair and let out a very loud, exaggerated, child-like moan, before looking up at John and sneering. "Like what?"

"Oh well I don't know," John said sarcastically. "Maybe try this neat little thing called _reading_. Or, if that doesn't work for you, you could do your experiments. Go over your old cases. Take a bath, drink some tea, play with the cat, do your laundry, or maybe even try to _sleep_."

"You play with her. She's your cat."

"You're a child," John snapped, annoyed as hell at his roommate. "A selfish, immature, bratty child." He bent down and picked up Phree, who had started to rub against his bare legs. As soon as he turned his back to Sherlock to return to his room, the detective picked up his violin and resumed playing. John resisted the urge to turn around and break the instrument in half.

He knew his time in the army had changed him. He was more independent and more confident than he had been before enlisting. That confidence, of course, had been taken down a few notches when living on the streets, but living with Sherlock was helping him to build it back up. He was beginning to remember—with Sherlock's subtle help—how intelligent he was, how kind, how successful. If anything, being homeless had, in the long run, helped him. The survival skills he learned in the army were put to use and perfected. He had learned to stand up for himself. He had learned to not care what opinions others formed about him. He had learned to value everything, no matter how small or insignificant it seemed.

All annoyances aside, he valued Sherlock. Immensely. The man seemed so robotic, cold and calculating, but he had a soft side that, John thought, only he saw. He cared about Mrs. Hudson, and even his brother to a degree, but he didn't like those people. He didn't seek out their company or care if they thought he was a bastard, but with John it was different. If John slept in abnormally late, Sherlock would come in and wake him up, making up some pathetic excuse. One day, John had gone out job hunting. He left early in the morning, before Sherlock was awake, and didn't return until late afternoon. Sherlock texted him every half hour with such various messages as "when will you be home?" or "I'm hungry, come make me breakfast/lunch/dinner", whatever the case may be. John knew it was because he wanted his company. If John were mad at him, Sherlock would swallow his pride and make him a cup of tea.

They had been roommates, formally, for two weeks. Phree had made herself at home immediately. Sherlock probably hadn't realized, John thought with a chuckle, that when John moved in, he was actually getting two roommates, not one. She _adored_ Sherlock. She slept had slept on his chest every night, until he started sleeping with his bedroom door closed for the sole purpose of keeping her out of his room. Too bad a door wasn't enough to keep Sherlock out of my room, John thought to himself. That man can pick any lock known to man.

Breakfast was simple, eggs and toast. As John had predicted, Sherlock had prepared him a cup of tea. The conversation was sparse, but John did manage to get Sherlock to discuss the topic of religion. Of course Sherlock thought the very idea of a man sitting up in the clouds and judging mankind was ridiculous, as did John to some extent. While serving in the army, John had met a man that followed the Buddhist faith. As he discussed Buddhism with his flat mate, he found himself thinking more and more that it may be a path he desired to follow. After all, he was already well versed in living on the minimum, and he knew full well about the fact that suffering exists in the world. Eventually Sherlock got tired of talking about what he called "utter nonsense", so John changed the topic.

"What are you doing today, then? Any plans?"

Sherlock merely picked at his food, not taking a single bite. Without looking up at John, he moaned, "Plans? What are plans? It's been so long since I've had any that I must have forgotten."

"There are things to do, you know."

The detective rolled his eyes and looked up at John with a frown. "No, there's not. If there were a case, Lestrade would have-"

"I meant _besides_ cases, Sherlock. Why don't you go to the cinema? You need to get out, get some fresh air and exercise. It would be good for you."

"Ugh!" Sherlock groaned as he pushed his untouched plate away, then stood up and began pacing, grabbing at random objects and inspecting them before dropping them carelessly back where they came from. "Dull, boring, predictable! I can predict the endings, always predict the endings!"

"Why don't you see Lestrade? I'm sure he could give you some normal, not exceedingly difficult cases to work on."

"And that's different than the cinema how?"

"Well you could come job hunting with me, but I don't think you would—"

A knock at the door stopped John mid-sentence. Sherlock, who was busy dusting off the skull on the mantle, said, "Answer it, would you?"

Obediently, John did so. An elderly man and woman, bundled up in heavy coats, boots, scarves, and gloves, stared back at him. John didn't recognize them.

"Um…hello. Can I help you with something?"

The man nodded. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. My name is Michael Moore. This is—"

John held his hand up. "Oh, um, wait. I'm not Sherlock. Please, come in though, he's right in here."

He stood aside, holding the door open for the couple. They both had gray hair and John guessed their age to be in the early sixties. "Sherlock. You have guests."

Sherlock didn't respond immediately, which didn't surprise John in the slightest. He finished dusting off the skull before turning and giving the couple a flash of a smile.

"Yes, Mr. Moore. How can I help you? Please, do sit down."

The man and woman sat down, the man in John's chair and the woman in Sherlock's. "Yes, my name is Moore. Michael Moore. This is Lily. She's my—"

"Your wife," Sherlock interrupted. "You've been married for over forty years. You flew here from America this morning, Georgia, to be precise. You're here to consult me on what I can only assume to be the disappearance of a child. Tell me all the details, no matter how insignificant."

Michael and Lily stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. "How do you—"

"Your rings. They match, and they have always been through a lot of wear and tear over the years. You've never thought about replacing them, apparently. Your accents give you away as American, and the particular dialect reveals that you live in Georgia. You both are tanned, which only happens in the southern states this time of year—and even then, it's a challenge to accomplish—but people your age do not go to tanning booths, so it must be natural. You have one suitcase, which you left in the hallway. I heard you dragging it up the steps. The fact that two people could fit their belongings into one suitcase means that you're not intending to stay any longer than you have to, and the fact that you came to see me means that you aren't in London for pleasure."

"But, our missing daughter-"

"Was an assumption, a good one though. There are few things that would make one go through the cost and hassle of air travel unless it was a last resort for a very dire situation, and a missing child, I imagine, is one that would put any parent in a fix. When did she go missing?"

"Two weeks ago."

John, who had pulled on his jacket, felt a slight sinking in his heart when he heard how long the couple's daughter had been gone. While he was moving in with Sherlock and beginning a new chapter in his life, these people had lost their child. He began to walk towards the door when Sherlock called after him.

"John?"

John stopped and turned around. "What?"

"Where are you going?"

"…Job hunting, remember? Besides, I don't want to be in the way."

Sherlock shook his head and beckoned for John to come back into the room. "No. Stay. I'd be lost without my Buddhist."


	3. Chapter 3

"When was the last time you saw your daughter?"

Michael leaned forward, his elbows resting on his legs, fingers laced together nervously. "Well…to be honest…we ain't seen her for nearly three years. See, she moved up to Ohio to be with her fiancé, Eric Black. She was gonna come visit us at Christmas but, well…"

As he trailed off, Lily's eyes began to tear up and she choked back a heavy sob. John rose from his chair and approached her, placing one of his rough hands on her shoulder.

"Mrs. Moore, I'm sure your daughter will be all right."

"Don't be so sure, John," Sherlock said quickly. He shot John a glare that clearly read 'stop getting involved and let me do my damn job'.

"When was the last time you _heard_ from your daughter?"

Michael, after pulling a crumpled napkin from his pocket and handing it to his wife, said to Sherlock, "It was the night she went missing. She called us right before she left work."

"Why?"

Michael shrugged his large shoulders. "Just to check in, I suppose."

"What was the date?" John asked. He had resumed his position, sitting on the arm of Sherlock's chair, and was now holding a pad of paper and a pencil, ready to take notes. So far he had written _Emily Moore. Engaged to Eric Black. Hasn't seen parents 1 year._

"It was the sixteenth," Lily said softly. The woman was still dabbing at her eyes and making an obvious attempt to keep her lip from trembling. "Friday, November sixteenth."

"Where was her fiancé?"

"He was at their home. She called him on her way from work. He…he told us something that he had heard." Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out yet another crumpled napkin. "I wrote it down on the plane for you."

Sherlock took the napkin from him, raising his eyebrows as he read the scratchy handwriting. John leaned down closer to read it along with the detective.

_What do you mean, where'd I find it? He's mine! My papa gave him to me. And now, I'm gonna give you to him._

"Eric told us that he heard someone saying that to Em. A kid."

"What is the 'it' they're referring to?" John asked.

Michael took a deep breath. "Well…let me just tell you what Eric says. He claims the kid—a young boy—ran out in front of Emily as she was driving. When she stopped to make sure he was all right, he asked her if she wanted to…if she wanted to see a dead body." He paused, no doubt not even believing the words that were coming from his own mouth. "Well…Eric said that she had been concerned that someone had been in an accident. She got out of her car and followed the kid. He said that he heard her gasp, ask the kid where he got something, and then the boy said that."

"The boy's father gave him a dead body?" Sherlock said suddenly. "Fascinating."

John rolled his eyes slightly and muttered, "Sherlock," which was enough to let the detective know he was being completely tactless.

"What do you think, Mr. Holmes?" Lily asked eagerly. "Will you help us?"

"We'll pay for your airfare and accommodation in America, of course," Michael insisted. "And anything you need, we'll take care of it."

Sherlock didn't seem to be paying attention to them. His fingers were tented in front of him and he was resting his face on them, eyes closed. "Why had it been so long since you had seen your daughter?"

Both Michael and Lily's faces turned bright pink.

"That…" Michael said hoarsely, "that's personal."

"No, no, Mr. Moore. If you want me to help you, you will tell me what I ask. Why have you not seen your daughter for three years?"

Lily and Michael exchanged mortified glances, but neither spoke.

"Sherlock," John said, as he tried to smile consolingly at the couple, "maybe it's not important."

"It is. Please Mr. Moore, don't make me ask again."

"We thought she was a lesbian!" Lily burst, suddenly. "Michael and I walked in on her kissing her college roommate. They were…doing things. Sick, sick things."

John's eyes widened a little—he wasn't sure what he had expected their answer to be, but it certainly wasn't this. He looked at Sherlock, who remained as impartial as always.

"We sent her to live in Ohio with my brother," Michael explained. "He is also…like that."

"What, you just got rid of her?" John asked. "Just because she was kissing someone?"

"A woman!" Lily cried. "We couldn't stand the thought of our daughter being like that. Gay."

Sherlock stood suddenly, avoiding the gaze of his guests, and walked to the windowsill and lifted his violin. "Yes, thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Moore, I'm afraid I can't help you." Before they could protest, he had begun to force the bow over the strings. The room was immediately filled with brash tones. To an outsider, they may have thought that Sherlock simply didn't know how to play, but John knew better. Sherlock was trying to get them to leave.

The Moores looked at John, all but begging him to make Sherlock stop. "Why can't he help us?" Lily asked desperately. "Please, make him help us! Our daughter—we don't care what she is, please, we need to know she's all right!"

John stood, helping them both off the couch and gently guiding them towards the door, all the while assuring them that he would speak to Sherlock and get him to change his mind. After closing and locking the door behind them, he leaned against it and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

The violin screeches stopped immediately.

"What the hell was that?" John asked him. "Why did you make them leave? And why did you say you won't help them? You've got _nothing_ on. Just this morning, you were telling me how bored you are."

Sherlock gingerly returned his violin to its case and sank back into his chair. "I cannot stand intolerance."

John raised his eyebrows. "You're—You're serious?" When Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, John continued. "You are one of the most intolerant people I know. You talk down to everybody. You think you're God's gift to man."

"I don't believe in—"

"Yes, yes, I know. It's an expression. Okay, they don't like gays…that's common in America, especially the south. Why does _this_ bother you so much?" Sherlock, again, didn't respond. In fact, he was making every attempt to avoid looking at John, even going as far as to play with a loose string on his shirtsleeve.

"Sherlock…are you…" John stopped mid-sentence, hoping that Sherlock would finish it for him.

"Am I what." It wasn't a question. Sherlock knew exactly what John was wondering, but clearly wanted to make him suffer and say it.

John looked around—clearly a ridiculous thing to do since they were alone in the flat. Lowering his voice, he finished, "Gay?"

Sherlock looked up at him and smirked. "Perhaps you'll never know."


	4. Chapter 4

"You must be joking."

"I am not."

"But…to never have flown, really? With your line of work? You really are limited in what cases you take, aren't you?"

Sherlock turned his head to glare at John. "I'm sorry, is the entire European continent not vast enough to meet your approval?"

"Is it heights that you're afraid of?"

"No. Wait, what?"

John shrugged carelessly. "I'm just assuming that you're afraid of flying. Is it heights, pilot error, what?"

Sherlock stopped walking abruptly. The two were at London International looking for their terminal. They had a layover in Amsterdam and another in Atlanta, Georgia, where Mr. and Mrs. Moore were due to join them on the flight to Ohio. After Sherlock had forced them out of the flat, they returned a few hours later and presented the detective with an apology for their judgemental words. Sherlock had then—with some persuasion from John—taken the case.

The airport was swamped with people and loud. Everyone was walking briskly to make their flights or sitting on benches and talking on their mobile phones.

"It must have been so simple, being on the streets," Sherlock said, ignoring John's previous question. "No obligations, no responsibilities."

"No food, no home, no money. Yes, Sherlock, being homeless is wonderful." He rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed by the other man's thoughtlessness. The two weeks he had lived with Sherlock had been more than adequate to teach him what to expect, and thoughtlessness was one of those things. Sherlock could be downright cruel at times, but he rarely intended to be.

"That is not what I was referring to," Sherlock argued. "I was merely commenting on the busyness of our generation."

"Yes, thank you, I think I'll pass on the 'Social Commentary by Sherlock Holmes' today." John nodded to a point directly in front of them. "There's our terminal, thank God."

"Where are our bags?"

"We've already checked them, Sherlock."

"Yes, but where are they?"

"We don't have to worry about that," John said, doing his best to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "They'll put them on the plane. We'll pick them up when we arrive in Amsterdam. Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"No you're not. I'm a doctor, remember? I know these things."

Fortunately, their flight began loading almost immediately after they arrived at the gate. They presented their boarding passes and made their way onto the plane. Every seat was occupied. They had been seated in the back of the plan, in the chairs directly in front of the bathroom.

"Lovely," John muttered sarcastically. "That's what we get for flying on short notice."

John had brought one of Sherlock's books in his carry-on bag, which he pulled out immediately upon sitting down beside the window and taking off his jacket. "Did you bring anything to…to do?"

Sherlock, in a monotone, controlled voice, said, "No."

Passengers continued to pile onto the plane. A young woman, who was sitting in the front, stood and walked back to the last row of seats, looking down at Sherlock and John with a smile on her face.

"Excuse me," she said, "I don't mean to bother you gentlemen, but I was wondering if I could switch seats with you." She was addressing Sherlock. "I'm pregnant and, well…might need to make a few trips to the loo, if you know what I'm saying."

Sherlock shook his head. "No."

The woman was clearly taken aback by Sherlock's abruptness. John stood up, taking his coat book into his hands. "Here, have mine."

Sherlock's arm shot up. His long fingers wrapped around John's shirtsleeve, pulling the man back down into his chair.

"You're staying here."

John looked from the woman to Sherlock. "Sherlock," he hissed, "the woman is _pregnant_. She needs to—"

"She is not pregnant," Sherlock interrupted. "She and her seatmate are, shall we say, members of the Mile-High club. She simply wishes to avoid any unnecessary attention."

The woman's face turned dark red. She mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'rude bastard' as she turned and went back to her seat. John licked his lips, which were suddenly very dry.

"How do you know she isn't pregnant?"

"She has an unopened box of tampons in her purse. Why would a pregnant woman need them? If they were open, all right, a prior purchase that is now unnecessary, but very unlikely she kept a new package in there unless she planned to use it soon."

John nodded. It made sense. "Okay then, how did you know her and the man are in the Mile-High club?"

Sherlock groaned, leaning forward and holding his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. "What is the matter with people?!" he snarled. "You—all of you—see but don't observe! Did you not see their keychains?"

"Their what?"

"Keychains, John! They have the same keys, which suggests that they share a car, a home. I didn't have an opportunity to see his left hand, but I assume he wears a matching wedding ring."

"But that doesn't mean they—"

"They both had a card on their keychains with the letters 'MHC'."

"MHC. Mile-High Club."

"Doubtful that it stands for anything else."

The captain came on over the loudspeaker, announcing that the plane had been cleared for takeoff. The passengers, John and Sherlock included, fumbled to get their seatbelts locked in place. John glanced over at Sherlock only to see that the man was holding tightly onto the armrests of his chair and had his eyes shut tightly.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

"Fine, thank you."

"You really are frightened, aren't you?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and locked onto John. "I am not _frightened_," he growled, spitting out the last word as if it were poison. "I am simply…unprepared. I do not enjoy the idea of being hoisted up into the air. It is unnatural. If man was meant to fly, we would have developed wings as we evolved."

"You'll be fine." John gently pat Sherlock's shoulder, which caused him to sigh. "The pilots know what they're doing. I hope." He smirked as Sherlock moaned, the sound barely audible.

The plane began to shake as it took off. Sherlock's eyes were tightly shut.

"Let's play a game," John said. "How about 20 Questions?"

"You're thinking of 'plane'," Sherlock replied bitterly.

"No I wasn't."

"You're lying."

"Sherlock, there's no way you could possibly know what I was thinking of. Come on, give it a try."

Sherlock sighed. The exhalation was ragged, a sure sign of nerves. "Fine. What is it?"

John furrowed his eyebrows. "Do you know this game? I can't tell you what it is; that would defeat the whole point of—"

"No, no, no, you misunderstand. Animal, plant, mineral, object?"

"Um…"

"If you don't know how to classify it, why are you asking about it?"

"Hold on. I'm thinking…let's go with…thing. It's a thing."

"Everything is a thing."

"You know, you're really not making this fun. It isn't an animal. It isn't a plant. It isn't a mineral, although it contains them."

"I don't know."

"You've still got nineteen more questions."

The plane jolted. Sherlock's brow furrowed and he grunted, exhaling slowly. "What is it used for?"

"Nothing, really. Research, maybe."

"By whom is it used?"

"Scientists. Hobbyists."

"Is it an ingredient?"

"Nope."

"Not edible, then?"

"Correct."

"Is it used in medicine?"

"It is not."

"What about police work?"

"Nope."

"What color is it?"

"Hm…I suppose it depends on what picture you're looking at; they all seem to be different. Some are gray, some blue, some a rust and beige."

"That is not at all helpful."

"Hey, it was your question."

The plan was off the track, now soaring higher and higher into the air. Sherlock still hadn't opened his eyes, nor had his grip on the arm rests loosened.

"Can I give up now?"

"You've only asked eight questions."

"This is boring."

"Two more, then you're off the hook."

Sherlock groaned. "How does one acquire it?"

"They don't. Not possible."

"Then where is it located?"

"Outer space."

Sherlock, sensing that the plane was out of the 'danger zone', opened his eyes and looked at John. "That's why I didn't know. I am unfamiliar with that particular area of science."

"Sherlock, it was Pluto. You could have guessed it if you had've asked a few more questions."

Sherlock paused. His eyes shut a little as he went into deep concentration. "…Pluto?"

"Yes. You know…the furthest planet-not-planet from the sun? Tiny, freezing ball of ice?" None of the facts seemed to jog Sherlock's memory. "You're kidding me," John continued. "You really don't know what Pluto is?"

"What does it matter what Pluto is? It's not important. I fill my head with things that are useful to me. Facts about a ball of ice are hardly that."

"But that's _primary_ school stuff. What, you forget everything you learn that isn't 'important'? How is that even possible?"

"Prioritization and practice. Anyone can do it if they try hard enough, John, even you."


	5. Chapter 5

Upon arriving in Atlanta, Georgia, Sherlock and John decided to get a quick lunch before meeting Mr. and Mrs. Morris. They stopped at the currency exchange desk which, thankfully, had a very short and fast-moving line, picked up their luggage, and then sought out a restaurant.

"I think I'm in the mood for a burger," John announced. "And some chips."

"I don't like burgers."

"So? You're not eating."

"Am I not?"

"…You told me that you don't eat while you're on cases. Remember, the whole 'digestion slows me down' thing?"

"I am hardly _on_ a case right now," Sherlock said. "I have taken a case, yes, but I have very few facts as of this moment. Eating will not hinder my ability to put facts together when I have none with which to do so."

John nodded towards a restaurant. "There. Budweiser Bar and Grill. A beer sounds good right now, too."

The two men went into the bar. The menu was diverse enough that John was able to order his burger and chips—after telling the waitress that he meant fries, not potato chips—and Sherlock ordered a simple BLT. They both asked for beers.

The waitress left to take their orders to the kitchen, returning immediately with two tall beers. John smirked and chuckled softly. Sherlock looked at him in surprise.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just find it funny that someone as interesting as you ordered something as boring as a BLT. I was expecting something more complicated."

Sherlock put his hands on either side of his beer glass. His eyebrows were furrowed. He blinked a few times, then looked up at John. "You think I'm interesting?"

"Of course I do," John told him. "How could I not? How could _anyone_ not?"

"Most just think I am, as was said on the plane, a 'rude bastard'."

"Yes, well, you're that too. It doesn't detract from your uniqueness." John saw Sherlock's lips quirk up into a smile for just a split-second. A single blink and he would have missed it. He knew that Sherlock enjoyed it when John complimented him. Even knowing him for only a month, John knew that Sherlock was normally treated poorly. Granted some of the treatment was warranted, but there was no reason for members of the police force to call him 'freak' or to accuse him of being a psychopath or sociopath, true as it may be.

"What if I were normal," Sherlock said, raising his beer in preparation to take a drink, "would you still have moved in with me?" He took a long drink of the beer. The taste was not unpleasant as he was expecting—he actually found that he enjoyed it.

"I'm sure I would've. I was desperate, Sherlock. People do crazy things when they're desperate."

"You weren't desperate," Sherlock told him. "You were—still are—one of the proudest people I have ever met. Unlike most people, you're not obnoxious about it."

"Well at least that makes one of us."

Sherlock cocked his head and looked at John, who stared right back at him. They both maintained neutral expressions on their faces for a few seconds, and then both men began to laugh. John found himself unable to stop. It was all too funny, the way that Sherlock was afraid of something as common as flying, the way he knew nothing about the solar system or anything that he deemed unimportant, the way he tried to hide the fact that he was secretly pleased when he met John's approval or was praised by him.

It wasn't until their food arrived a few minutes later that they were able to stop giggling like children. John was starving. He hadn't eaten for almost an entire day—not as long as he'd gone without food while on the streets, of course, but still enough to make him feel famished. He cut his burger in half and began eating his chips one by one.

Sherlock was going much slower. He opened up his sandwich, putting the bread on one side of his plate, the lettuce and tomato on the other, and the bacon in the center. John watched, bemused.

"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious? I am inspecting my meal, John."

"Looking for anything in particular?"

Sherlock nodded as he took his fork and checked both sides of his tomato. "Bodily fluids."

John choked on the bite of hamburger that he had in his mouth. "Bodily—bodily fluids? Really? Making sure that no one spit on your food?"

"Or worse."

"Sometimes you have to just trust people, Sherlock," John told him. "Dining out is one of those times."

"I don't trust people. It isn't a good idea. People are flawed; they're stupid. They're unreliable. Why put your trust in someone that is, inevitably, going to disappoint you?"

"But…you trusted me." He stopped, but Sherlock's blank expression encouraged him to continue on and explain to what he was referring. "When we first met, you gave me your phone number. You told me to tell you if I saw McNamara. It seems to me you did that because you _trusted_ that I would find out the information for you."

"Yes. And you didn't, did you?"

"You also trusted me to go undercover as a buyer," John continued, ignoring Sherlock's remark. "We'd known each other for such a short time, yet you were sending me to do a job for you."

"Another objective that you didn't complete."

"That's not the point! What I'm trying to say is that, even though we had just met, you put a high level of trust in me. Why did you do it?"

Sherlock shrugged. He looked completely uninterested in the question. "I did trust you. I still trust you."

"Why?"

"Your professions. Doctors and military servicemen and women tend to have high integrity."

"Yes. Dr. Kevorkian was simply lovely."

"I said _tend _to," Sherlock defended himself. "Both professions are entirely focused on helping or healing others, serving others. To be drawn to both indicates a strong moral compass. I also knew that you were brave and able to stand up for yourself. And," Sherlock's voice lowered a little, "I knew that you had nothing to lose."

"Excuse me."

Sherlock and John looked up from their beers and food. There was a young man—early thirties, probably—standing beside their table. He was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans and a black sweater vest over a crisp white shirt, black oxfords on his feet. He was looking at Sherlock, eyes wide and a large smile on his face.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked. "What do you want?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt your date—"

"I'm not his date!" John interrupted. The man ignored him.

"—but I had to speak with you. You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? The detective from London?"

Sherlock nodded. "I am."

"I _love_ your website!" the man continued. He was gushing, that much was obvious. His voice held an Irish accent, although it sounded almost like it had been Americanized. "The Science of Deduction—it is _brilliant_! I adored your analysis of tobacco ash. How did you get so smart?"

Sherlock turned to the man, now showing more interest in him since the slew of compliments had begun. "I was born this way," he said. "And, with no small amount of effort on my part, I have made every attempt to become as knowledgeable as possible about a variety of topics."

The man reached out his hand and grabbed Sherlock's, quickly pulling a pen out of his pocket and scribbling something down onto it, before Sherlock had a chance to stop him. "My number," he said. "Call me if you'd like to…talk."

The man smiled one final time at Sherlock before turning and leaving the restaurant, not looking at John at all, not even acknowledging him.

"That was…weird."

Sherlock nodded. "It was indeed. However, it was nice to hear of someone who 'adores' my work."

John snorted. "I don't know if it was your work that he adores, Sherlock."

"What do you mean?"

"It seems more likely that he adores _you_." John motioned towards Sherlock's hand. "Come on, he left you his bloody phone number. He didn't even tell you his name."

Sherlock shook his head, holding his hand out so that John could see what the man had written. "Yes, he did."

A phone number was scrawled hastily over Sherlock's palm, followed by the words:

_Call me. – Jim_

John could tell that Sherlock was relieved when they arrived in Ohio and got off the plane. He couldn't help but smile to himself. Sherlock was a brave man, there was no doubt about, but everyone had fears and he was no exception.

John's fear was simple: losing Sherlock. They were still getting to know each other, both as friends and flatmates, but John knew that what they had was special. He had never become so loyal so quickly to anyone before in his life. He had liked Sherlock almost immediately. Running into him on the street was an unpleasant experience, but everything after that had been like a dream. His life had meaning again.

Sherlock cared about him, too, in his own way. Sally had tried to talk him out of believing it, but John hadn't listened. 'He's only using you, you know,' she had told him. 'You're not his friend; he doesn't have friends. He needs someone to assist him and you're the only one who doesn't hate him—yet. Just give it time.'

She and John had been standing only a few feet from Sherlock. The detective heard her, of course, but he didn't respond until they were taking the cab back to Baker Street.

"She's right," the detective had told him. "I don't have friends. And everyone on the force does hate me."

John had disagreed with this, both to make Sherlock feel better (a foolish goal, he now knew, since Sherlock could not have cared less who liked him and who didn't) and also to talk himself out of believing Sally's words. "You're wrong. Lestrade likes you."

"Lestrade tolerates me because he needs me."

John hadn't replied. He knew neither man well enough to go further with the debate. That was a bit over a week ago. Now he was here in America with Sherlock, taking on a case that neither of them knew much about. Mr. and Mrs. Moore walked behind them to the luggage pick-up, holding hands.

"Why does this thing move so slowly?" Sherlock complained as they stood, waiting for the belt to produce their cases. "Do they think people want to spend more time in this God-forsaken place than they have to?"

"Sometimes it's hard to recognize your bag," John told him. "I mean, look—right now there's eight black suitcases. If it moved too fast people would miss theirs."

"Then they should label them."

"Maybe, but they don't. Just be patient; we'll be out of here before you know it."

"Out of here and to investigating a disappearance," Sherlock said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I am quite looking forward to it, John. There will be clues that were overlooked, of course, there always are."

"You won't overlook them, though?"

"Obviously. I don't miss things. Not only do I see but I observe, a practice that the human race seems to have forgotten about."

John stepped closer to Sherlock, lowering his voice as he asked, "Do you think she's alive?"

Sherlock shook his head. At his regular volume, he said, "No, I don't think she is. The family is not wealthy, nor does the woman possess any extraordinary talents or qualities, none that we have heard of, at least. It is unlikely that she was taken for ransom or to be put to use in illicit activities."

"Sherlock!" John hissed, looking over the man's shoulder to glance at the elderly couple. Thankfully, they didn't seem to have heard. "Quiet," John told him. "Their daughter is missing. Try to be a bit more sensitive."

"Sensitivity will not bring her back," Sherlock snapped. "Objectivity will, at the very least, give them closure on what happened to her. Holding a patient's hand, John, does not cure them."


	6. Chapter 6

As the four left the terminal, they were greeted by a young man, aged thirty to thirty-two, Sherlock surmised. He was Caucasian but had a dark tan and his hair had been lightened by the sun; this was obvious because his beard was darker than the head on his hair and arms, much darker. Mr. Moore put his hand on the man's shoulder and motioned to John and Sherlock.

"Eric, this is Sherlock Holmes, the detective from London who—"

"Yes, yes, I know," Eric interrupted him. He extended his hand to Sherlock, who accepted it grudgingly. "Mr. Holmes, thank you _so_ much for coming. We didn't know what else to do; the police force here is less than helpful and the FBI basically told us that they didn't have time to investigate every single missing persons case, which is why we turned to a private investigator. Who better suited for that than you?"

Sherlock gave him a small, polite smile, but he was too busy examining this Eric Black to focus on forming a response. Worked outside, construction probably, judging from a few tells. He was wearing steel-toed boots, had dirt underneath and around his fingernails, the dark tan and lightened hair. His arms were very developed, more so than any other part of his body, which suggested time spent lifting and lugging heavy items and equipment. The other areas of his body weren't as muscular, so, unlikely that he went to the gym to train. His shirt had sweat stains, old ones, which had clearly accumulated over time.

"Who's this, then?"

"My partner," Sherlock answered, nodding towards John. "Doctor John Watson."

As Eric shook his hand, he bit his lip. "You can imagine how hard this is on me, then" he told John. "Just imagine if _he_ went missing. You'd have a right fit, yeah? Not knowing where they are, if they're okay, sleeping alone every night—"

"No, no," John interrupted, holding up his hand. "I'm—I'm sorry we're not-we're not that type of partners. I just help him on his cases."

Eric raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. He didn't seem convinced, but he let the matter drop. "Okay, well, um…d-do you want to start by me showing you where she disappeared from? I'm not really sure what else there is to do. She was just driving home one night, and the next thing I know she's telling me she sees some kid, and then she's out looking for a dead body and then—"

"Stop," Sherlock interrupted him, rather curtly. "Just—wait. You need to tell me what she said, her exact words." Eric opened his mouth to do just that, but Sherlock cut him off yet again. "No, not now. When we get there. Take me to the road that she supposedly disappeared from."

He had already spent hours on a plane; what harm would a little more waiting do? He wanted to be able to see the scene, to imagine the woman speaking the words, imagine what she was seeing at the time. The best way to do that was to put himself in her place.

Eric and the Moores took the lead out of the airport. Sherlock had been directly behind them, but John grabbed his jacket sleeve and pulled him back a few feet.

"Maybe don't be so quick to doubt their story."

"What?"

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, John explained, "Don't say the place that she 'supposedly' disappeared from. You'll make them think that you don't believe them, that will make them angry, they won't want to work with you, they'll—"

"That will hardly be _my_ problem, John. They came all the way to London for my help; I highly doubt that they would risk losing it over one word."

"Look, all I'm saying is to be nice. Don't act like yourself. A little compassion never hurt anyone." The look Sherlock gave him clearly expressed that the detective had a number of examples raring and ready to go where compassion had, indeed, been the cause of someone's downfall, but John held up his hand and shook his head. "No, no, don't. Don't do that." Over the spinning and clicking of their luggage wheels, he put in another request. "Oh, and could you stop introducing me as your _partner, _for God's sake? I asked you the first time you did it not to and you still do."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, although he clearly wasn't, "my memory isn't what it used to be."

The snarky comment served no further purpose than to annoy John, which it adequately fulfilled. They arrived at Eric's car after a time. None of the five said anything. It was an uncomfortable situation and a rather bleak one at best. Eric dropped off the Moores at his flat before he, Sherlock, and John began the drive to where Emily's car had been found. Sherlock moved into the front seat—easier to observe from up there.

"She was on her way home. Home from work." Eric paused and exhaled. His breath was shaky because he was fighting so hard to keep his composure. "You have to find her, Mr. Holmes. We—We were going to get married in a few months. I can't imagine not spending the rest of my life with her, you know? She means everything to me."

"We understand," John said, even though the statements hadn't been addressed to him. He knew without a doubt that Sherlock certainly wasn't going to acknowledge the man's feelings. "We promise you that we'll do everything we can to find out what happened to her." He said 'find out what happened to her' rather than 'find her' intentionally. Missing for two weeks, absolutely no signs of where she'd gone, apparently. It wasn't looking good.

While John was trying to comfort the man, Sherlock was focusing on the car. It was clean—pristine, even. He could see areas of the floor where the carpet was brushed the opposite way, obvious paths made by a handheld vacuum. There wasn't a speck of dust in the cup holders or on the dashboard.

"Is this a new car?"

Eric chuckled softly, despite the graveness of the situation. "No, Mr. Holmes, not new. I've had her almost three years."

"I thought as much from the wear of the stereo knobs. You keep it up well."

"It's my most prized possession."

"Shouldn't that be your wife?"

"Sherlock!" John chided from the back seat. So far this trip had consisted of nothing more than him correcting Sherlock when he made an arse of himself.

Eric held up his hand. "No, no Doctor Watson, he's right." Sherlock watched as Eric gripped the steering wheel tighter, until his knuckles began to turn white. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, I do value Emily more than my car, of course I do. I meant my car as my most prized material possession. I don't _own_ Emily."

"Tell me all you can about her." Clearly, Sherlock wasn't interested in hearing the man bear his soul about his girlfriend and her value to him.

"Why? Do you think someone took her to take _her_? The police assumed it was just a random abduction."

"Has anybody else gone missing from the area?"

"Well, no…not that I know of. We're a small community; it would be hard for someone to disappear without others knowing about it. I've lived here my whole life and have never heard of someone being kidnapped or anything."

"Not likely that it was a coincidence, then. Or, it could be that—"

"That she was the first," John finished from the backseat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed heavily, loudly, but managed to avoid a snarky remark. "Yes, thank you, John, that _is_ what I intended to say. However, the fact that it has been two weeks since her disappearance is curious. If they wanted to take someone else, they more than likely would have done so by now. Since they haven't, the assumption that Emily was sought out makes more sense. Did she have anything particularly unique about her? Anything that may have appealed to someone enough to make them want her?"

Eric shook his head. His brow furrowed as he thought. "Well…no. Nothing that I can think of. I mean, she's great, but she hasn't got any special talents or qualities. Um…she can play the piano really well. She can sing. She's always been real good at spelling. I think she—"

"That's enough," Sherlock interrupted. "We've established that she is, for lack of a better term, nothing special. Neither your family nor hers is wealthy or has any type of political power, so she would not have been taken for ransom. Tell me more about her."

It had begun to rain heavily. Every drop that hit the car was amplified in volume. They had been driving through the town but were now on an old country road. It was hard to make out anything for the rain, but John could see the outlines of trees and shrubs alongside the road. John knew that Sherlock would be upset at the weather; any clues that _were_ left behind by the American police would more than likely be, literally, washed away.

"She was born and raised in Georgia," Eric had begun saying. "Um…like I said, she plays piano and sings. She's really religious; her entire family is. Southern Baptist. You know, the hardcore kind of religious fanatics. She isn't like that though, not at all. Don't get me wrong, she's a good girl, but she's not one to judge someone just because—"

"Mr. Black, I don't need a dissertation."

John could see Eric in the rearview mirror looking nothing but confused. "But…but you said you wanted to know everything about her."

"Yes, everything of import."

Truthfully, John didn't understand what Sherlock was asking for, either. Eric was being thorough, which is what Sherlock had requested.

"Sherlock, why don't you just ask what you want to know?"

"The _facts_. I want to know the _facts_. Not your impression of her. Not how she makes you feel. Tell me the _facts_."

"She majored in business, minored in music and Bible. She had to transfer schools because her parents saw her kissing her roommate. She was only going through a phase, you know? Her roommate was a lesbian and just wanted her to try it. I don't even think that she—"

"Facts, Mr. Black."

Eric frowned, clearly frustrated and annoyed at Sherlock's constant interruptions. "Yeah, well, she moved to Ohio and got her degree, starting working in an office. We met through mutual friends and fell in love, after a few years I asked her to marry me. We've been engaged for two years."

Finally arriving at their destination, Eric let his foot press gently on the brake pedal. "This is where they found her car, right up there." He parked the car, leaving the lights on to illuminate the area, and the three men got out. Sherlock's eyes instantly went to the ground.

"I was on the phone with her when she stopped, Mr. Holmes!" Eric called out, raising his voice so that it could be heard over the rain. "She had stayed late at work that night. She was driving, and then all of a sudden stopped because something ran out in front of her car. She told me that it was a kid. He asked her if she wanted to see a dead body."

"A dead body?" John had pulled his jacket up over his head to keep from being rained on, but it wasn't proving to be very helpful. "A _kid _asked her that? What was a kid even doing out here at night?"

"Hell if I know! She followed after him, and I take it she actually saw something. She asked him 'where did you get this?'."

Sherlock wasn't having the best of luck with the road. It was muddy and had clearly been driven on recently. Any tracks, be it car or footprints, animal, whatever, were, of course, no longer visible. "Did she tell you what she was seeing?"

Eric shook his head. "No, no she didn't have the chance. I think she was too surprised to get anything out at all, at first. But…" His voice trailed off as he bit his bottom lip and shook his head slowly. The recollection of the events, clearly, was not something he enjoyed having to do. "That wasn't the strangest thing. I could hear the kid when he said this…he said, 'My pappy gave him to me, and now, I'm gonna give you to him'. Then I heard her scream, and…well…that's the last I heard from her."

"They found neither corpse though, correct?"

John and Eric looked up at Sherlock in surprise. "What did you say?"

Sherlock, upon realizing how what he said could have been misconstrued—only by the American, though, he had no doubt that the woman was dead—smiled in mock apology. "Sorry. They found no trace of either a child or of the corpse she saw?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. Nothing."

John wanted to suggest to Sherlock that they stop, come back when it was daytime and not raining, but he knew it would be pointless. Sherlock would argue that he had to reconstruct the scene of the crime as accurately as he could. What better opportunity to do that than on a dark and stormy night?


End file.
